


turn your car around

by decideophobia



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-11
Updated: 2013-09-11
Packaged: 2017-12-26 08:22:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/963726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decideophobia/pseuds/decideophobia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles was frantic and yelling angrily at Derek all while pushing wolfsbane into his wounds, merciless, as Derek writhed and groaned in pain, and Stiles thought, <i>Yeah, take that, asshole, that’s what you get from throwing yourself in front of me</i>. His hands were fluttering all over Derek, though, checking, worried he’d missed an injury, and his voice had gone hoarse from yelling at this stupid, dumb bastard of a werewolf and, <i>Never do that again!</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	turn your car around

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so this is based on a prompt again. I'm pretty sure I completely abused tenses here but I suck at past time stuff, so feel free to correct any mistakes I've made. 
> 
> Jessy came up with the title, yay.

“Dammit,” Stiles mutters while he claps his hands angrily against the jeep’s steering wheel. He stares out the windshield but he can’t see anything; the outside world is fucking _drowning_ and everything is just a blur of bizarre shapes and colours through the veil of water on the glass. Stiles tries the wipers. Nothing. He suspects it’s the car battery but he assumes there’s no sense in opening the hood and taking a look. 

Stiles fumbles his phone out of the pocket of his pants, glares when the words, no signal flash up and thinks the world once again decided to literally rain on his parade. He’s just paid his dad a visit at the station to smugly announce he scored an A+ in what is considered the worst exam of this semester. Seriously, he wouldn’t be surprised if some nightmarish creature would stumble out of the woods lusting after his blood and flesh. 

He scrubs a hand over his face while he considers his options. At least, he’s in town and not out in the wilderness doing ridiculous research that involves digging in the dirt for-- _something_. That’s a plus. 

There’s a mild chance that the rain might stop in the foreseeable future, so Stiles could wait it out and then walk home. He pulls down the window on the driver’s side and peers outside. It doesn’t seem like the rain’s going to stop anytime soon. Stiles sighs inwardly. 

His other option--and he only realizes it when he looks around to make out where exactly he even is--is Derek’s place. Stiles’ jeep broke down not far away from the loft, apparently, and of all the other people Stiles could go to, Derek is nearest. 

He bites his lip, mulling it over, imagining all the ways things could go if he really decided to go to Derek. 

Stiles scratches a spot under his chin, breathes out, “Fuck it,” with feeling and opens the door. 

The moment he jumps out of the jeep, he feels the heavy raindrops: landing on his hair, catching on his skin, soaking into his clothes. Stiles curses himself for not taking a jacket with him, but oh, the day had looked so good in the morning.

Stiles feels like a drowned rat by the time he reaches the door to the apartment building. He is drenched, soaked to the bone, and so goddamned cold he feels shivers running up and down his spine. There’s a cold waiting to happen, he just knows. If Derek doesn’t grant him permission to enter, Stiles will make sure to snot all over the place tomorrow. Even if it means he has to drag himself out of bed with--probably--fervour, uh, fever. 

On the elevator ride up, Stiles pulls his shirt away from his stomach but when he lets go it just sucks itself right back against his skin. He heaves a sigh of frustration. If it had been nice, warm summer rain at least, but no, it was cold, stinging fall downpour that chills you to the bone. Stiles sniffs pathetically and jerks when the elevator comes to a halt. 

Stiles wonders if Derek’s cute little warning system already screamed alarm. He thinks it’s kinda stupid Derek still has it but he’s adamant about it claiming he’d rather be prepared when shit is about to go down in his loft again. Everything is silent, though, and Stiles tries to come up with a greeting--something, a line that would convince Derek of letting him in--after he’s knocked on the door.

Nothing happens. There’s no response whatsoever. 

Great. Derek’s playing dead. Stiles pounds his fist against the door again, more insistent this time. He doesn’t have the time or nerves for this bullshit. He’s dripping wet, he’s freezing, and his clothes are sticking to places where nothing should stick to. Frankly, it’s gross. And annoying. 

In a fit of desperation, Stiles tries the door--and it smoothly glides open. 

Huh. 

Stiles steps inside, makes a face at the squelching sound his feet make in his sneakers. Everything is quiet inside, the dull gray light from outside dimly illuminates the interior of Derek’s loft, casts dark shadows along the walls. All of Derek’s things are neatly organized, it’s meticulously tidy. It came somewhat as a surprise to Stiles when he found out that Derek likes to keep his place clean. 

Stiles walks to the desk in the middle of the room, looking around to check if Derek’s lurking in the shadows somewhere, hoping Stiles won’t notice him. He ignores the squeaky sounds the soles of his shoes make on the floor, but when he turns back around to the door he sees the trail of water he left behind. He’s dripping everywhere. 

So, Derek isn’t home. If Derek was home, he’d probably be bitching about Stiles soaking everything already. Stiles thinks he should sit Derek down sometime and talk about the seriousness of locking doors. 

Stiles takes another look around. He’s in desperate need of a warm shower and dry clothes and something hot to drink. Would it be weird if he--? Stiles pushes some stray strands of hair out of his forehead. Derek wouldn’t mind if Stiles took a shower, uninvited. Probably. Maybe. It’s not like it would be Stiles’ first shower here, so it’s not that--weird. He scrunches up his nose. What’s the etiquette on uninvited showers at the place of that person you’re sleeping with? Occasionally. Repeatedly. Happens-more-often-and-often-ly. 

Water is pooling around Stiles’ feet and he decides to screw it and just shower. He pads upstairs into the bathroom, toes off his sneakers and wriggles out of his drenched clothes, lets them drop to the floor with a wet thump, shivering at the sensation the air leaves on his damp skin. There are goosebumps on his arms when he clambers into the shower.

It’s like someone shot him straight to heaven when the warm water hits Stiles’ shoulders. He’s unable to hold in the pleased moan, lets his head loll forwards and just enjoys the delicious warmth for a moment. 

Derek won’t be mad, Stiles hopes. Assumes. Tentatively knows? Wishes. 

Stiles turns around and holds his face under the spray, thinks about possible reactions. It used to be so easy for him to guess what Derek would say, how he’d react, what face he’d make. This skill seemed to have slipped Stiles’ fingers the moment this--thing started. 

This thing where they started to ravage each other almost on sight. Whenever they were alone. Stiles shudders at the memories of all their...encounters. It’s like once it happened he couldn’t even control himself anymore. Like the only possible thing he could do when he met Derek alone was just jump him and kiss him until his lungs were burning from lack of oxygen. Derek never refused, never even hesitated, almost like he couldn’t help himself either. 

The first time it happened was after they barely made it out alive from another confrontation with Gerard. Fucking Gerard who managed to mobilize a small amount of bloodthirsty hunters and attempted to use Scott’s Alpha status to cure himself. It had left them all pretty banged up, Derek was bleeding from several wounds, blue smoke rising up from three different holes in his torso; bullets he took for Stiles. 

Stiles was frantic and yelling angrily at Derek all while pushing wolfsbane into his wounds, merciless, as Derek writhed and groaned in pain, and Stiles thought, _Yeah, take that, asshole, that’s what you get from throwing yourself in front of me_. His hands were fluttering all over Derek, though, checking, worried he’d missed an injury, and his voice had gone hoarse from yelling at this stupid, dumb bastard of a werewolf and, _Never do that again!_

Stiles breathed easier after Derek had healed up, skin smooth as ever, like nothing had happened, but Stiles was still angry, still high on adrenaline, fear and pain. Derek gathered his senses too, yelled right back about how insensible Stiles had been trying to face the hunters, how he could’ve gotten himself killed and he’d grabbed Stiles by the upper arms and shook him, desperately, gently, _Stop putting yourself in danger like that, Stiles, god, you’ve no--_

And then they kind of, just, collided. All hard kisses, hot mouths, wet tongues, and they were still dirty; Stiles’ fingers bloody from where he’d pressed his hands over Derek’s wounds and pushed the wolfsbane into the bullet holes; Derek’s clothes torn to shreds and hanging limply off him. It was desperate and angry and hungry all the same, they’d kissed with the urgency of--like it was the last thing they would ever do. 

The bed was a mess afterwards, bloodied and dirty and there was a noticeable amount of spunk on there, too, and Stiles was so spent he couldn’t even care about any of it. He had bruises on him, after, that he couldn’t attribute to the fighting and running from the hunters; bruises on his neck, on his hips, on the inside of his thighs, and he kept prodding at them in some sort of weird amazement. 

After, yeah, that was when he took the first shower at Derek’s place. 

They didn’t get around to discuss what happened--or how it happened, or why because everyone gathered at Derek’s for a sort of debriefing. Allison said Gerard was gone for good. It was over. Everyone heaved a sigh of relief. 

Stiles left with everyone else when they were done.

It took him a couple of days to gather the courage to go back to Derek’s, to ask him what the hell happened. Or why. 

When Derek opened the door, he looked at Stiles with the same expression Stiles’d seen on himself in the mirror when he thought about that night. Stiles opened his mouth, intent on getting this cleared up. He didn’t get a word out.

Instead, he met Derek halfway, mouths clashing and hands fisting into hair, shirts, anything, and then Derek lifted him up, guided Stiles’ legs around his waist, and Stiles’d forgotten why he came there in the first place. 

It kept happening. Whenever Stiles tried to talk about it, they ended up having sex against the nearest flat surface. Or not so flat surface. It never really mattered. Unfortunately, it’s not like Stiles can blame it on Derek. Hell, even Derek had tried to talk about it, to start the conversation about _what the fuck is happening between them_ , and it was kind of like an invisible string pulling them towards each other until they hungrily made out before they could get a word out. 

Lately, it doesn’t just happen when Stiles wants to talk about it. It doesn’t even happen every once in awhile. It happens almost regularly, it happens purposefully, and more and more often. 

Stiles scrubs his hands over his face, rubs his eyes and exhales deeply. He’s pretty sure if Derek had been home when he arrived, they’d ended up fucking like bunnies through the loft. 

He turns off the water and steps out of the shower, towels himself dry before wandering to Derek’s dresser to get some clothes. Stiles finds a grey henley; it’s soft between his fingers, worn, and it smells like detergent. He put it on, fishes out a pair of sweatpants and pulls the strings on the waistband until he’s sure the pants won’t slip down his hips. 

It’s not the first time Stiles thinks about--this. About them. About what it is. What it means. He’s tried to stay away but somehow Derek and he always ended up together in bed, one way or another. Stiles can’t really say he regrets it, but he just doesn’t understand it. Doesn’t know, can’t even fathom what Derek thinks about this. 

Plus, it’s not--it’s not--they’re not, like, clinical about it. There’s no not-touching-afterwards, no not-staying-over-after, it’s--

They’ve showered together; they’ve lied in bed together, in the dark, with Derek softly trailing his fingertips over the planes of Stiles’ back; they’ve lazily traded kisses after Stiles came so hard he forgot his name for a second; Derek’s made him breakfast one morning, and Stiles has once woken up with his ear over Derek’s heart, with the soft early morning light filtering through the large window. 

It’s all very sweet actually, it feels amazing and Derek is--Derek keeps giving Stiles everything he could wish for in--

The way things go between them is how Stiles pictured his perfect relationship. He feels calm and balanced when he’s with Derek, when they’re alone together, lying naked in bed with Stiles chewing on the cap of a pen while working on an essay and Derek reading next to him. It’s almost serene, peaceful. 

But then they still argue about the tiniest of stuff, bicker and banter, and make sarcastic jabs at every turn.

(“‘No, Derek, I don’t like sushi. Sushi is gross’,” Derek says in a mocking of Stiles’ earlier words. Stiles will never admit that Derek can do a pretty accurate impression of him, it’s scary.

“Sushi _is_ gross,” Stiles says fervently before he bites into another roll. He’s tried sushi before, he never liked it until fucking Derek came along with his dumb sushi making skills, and seriously, this is stupid.

Derek rolls his eyes. “I can see that.”

“You’re hallucinating.”

“Of all the things I could hallucinate I’m hallucinating about you. That is just fantastic.”

“Please, like you don’t enjoy this.”

“Enjoy watching crumbs of half-chewed stuff falling out of your mouth?” Derek lifts an eyebrow. “I’m pretty sure someone’s testing me.”

“Testing your strength in not reading the etiquette guide to me?”

“More like in not shoving it up your ass.”)

Derek--Derek just gets him. He matches Stiles in sarcasm, in quick wit and retorts, shoots out a snarky comment without missing a beat; he pushes as much as he pulls, and Stiles feels--he feels incredibly good. 

If Stiles is honest with himself, he admits that he doesn’t want to lose whatever they have.

He pads down into the kitchen, digs through the cabinets until he finds hot chocolate somewhere in a deep corner. Stiles stares at it for a moment before he smiles to himself. It’s his favourite sort, and he knows Derek doesn’t really like hot chocolate and--Stiles’ heart beats a little faster. 

Stiles settles on the bed, sips the chocolate and looks around again. It got a little darker outside, dark grey clouds hanging low in the sky. He falls asleep buried in between pillows and blankets that smell like Derek.

*

When he wakes up, there’s soft yellow light coming from the lamp on the nightstand. Derek is lying next to him on the bed, Stiles’ right arm draped over his waist.

“Hey,” Derek says softly when Stiles slowly sits up and rubs at his eyes. He’s been reading but he marks the page and puts the book away, sits up too. 

“‘lo,” Stiles answers a little sleepily. Derek looks relaxed and calm, and there’s a hint of a smile tugging on the corner of his mouth. “How long’ve I been ‘sleep?”

Derek shrugs one-shouldered. “You were sleeping when I got here.”

“Sorry,” Stiles mutters, tugs a little self-consciously at the tufts of his hair. 

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Derek replies, the look on his face caught somewhere between confusion and amusement. 

Stiles studies his face. Derek seems content, the slope of his shoulders relaxed, the line around his mouth soft. He isn’t frowning or scowling, just radiating warmth and calmness. For some reason, Derek doesn’t even seem to want an explanation, a reason why Stiles is here, wearing his clothes and sleeping in his bed. 

“I--the jeep broke down and your place was nearest, so I--and my phone was dead too,” Stiles explains in a rush, stumbling over the words. 

He’s half expecting Derek to snort, to say that next time he should go somewhere else, but Derek only looks contemplative for a moment, asks, “Is it okay if we get your jeep tomorrow? It’s dark out already and it’s still raining.”

Stiles can’t help but stare open-mouthed at him. “Okay,” he finds himself saying. 

Derek smiles, a private, tiny little smile, and it makes Stiles want to kiss him until he’s breathless, until all he can think about is Derek, until Derek’s presence, his sole being wraps around Stiles and makes him feel good in a way he hasn’t been since his mom died. 

He snaps his eyes away from Derek’s face, stares down at his hands, takes a deep breath.

“You okay?” Derek asks quietly, carefully.

Stiles exhales slowly and makes himself look up again, meet Derek’s eyes. “What is this--thing that we do?”

Derek doesn’t answer right away. “I don’t know,” he answers finally, he sounds a little bit frustrated, although the expression in his eyes seems sad. 

Stiles can’t really say what he expected. He didn’t think Derek would hold all the answers, and it makes him feel marginally better that he isn’t the only one clueless about their current...situation. It’s hard to form words, to say something when he doesn’t know where to start. Derek doesn’t appear to mind this thing that they have going on. 

Stiles laughs inwardly, thinks it’s probably no wonder they both have no idea what this is when they’ve never talked about it. 

“I meant it,” Derek says then, and Stiles looks up, watches the way some complex play of conflicting emotions flickers over his face. “The--I know I never said anything but--the--what we did.”

“The sex,” Stiles offers.

Derek looks pained for a moment. “Not just the sex,” he elaborates, and quietly adds, “All the other things too. Just--being together. I don’t--I don’t regret it, and I wouldn’t change anything about it.”

There’s a pause. “And I don’t want it to stop, Stiles.”

Stiles sits in silence, mind racing in order to process what Derek’s just said. Derek shifts uncomfortably on the bed. 

He sighs quietly and continues, “I really don’t know what this is,” he motions a hand between the two of them, “but I know what I’d like it to be. I’m not going to label it without you, though.”

Stiles feels his heart thump excitedly against his ribs. He leans forward and Derek mimics the motion, again it’s like they’re being pulled together. They’re so close that puffs of Derek’s breath ghost over Stiles’ skin and he can count Derek’s lashes. 

Stiles’ skin buzzes with anticipation, and yeah, Derek’s meant everything. He didn’t have to say anything. He’s showed it with kisses and touches, with smiles and little actions, and Stiles knows what he means. 

“Yeah,” he manages out eventually, his voice hoarse. “Let’s label it.”

Derek smiles again, curls a hand around Stiles’ neck and draws him impossibly closer. He doesn’t stop smiling when he kisses Stiles, and it’s perfect.

*

“So,” Stiles says, boneless and wrung out, sweat cooling on his back, and lazily turns his head to look at Derek whose breathing is evening out slowly. He smirks into the sheets and asks, “Friends with benefits it is, then?”

Stiles shrieks laughing when Derek kicks him out of bed.


End file.
